


Growing Tired (of all this Christmas Cheer)

by OverMyFreckledBody



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, Christmas, Claudia Stilinski Feels, Gen, Stilinski Family Feels, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 07:18:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12882861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverMyFreckledBody/pseuds/OverMyFreckledBody
Summary: It's Christmas time again. Mom's still gone, but her traditions aren't.





	Growing Tired (of all this Christmas Cheer)

**Author's Note:**

> holidays are hard when someone who should be in the house isn't
> 
> stiles' references [this song,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C-nq8tuU5Wg) and then after, [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xJUG5IPG8Fw).
> 
> while writing, i actually listened to [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KPXPQ-s0SlQ)

               _It’s Christmas Eve and –_

 

                “I’ve only wrapped two fucking presents,” Stiles hums to himself, not even the slightest bit quiet, despite knowing that his dad is just feet from him, sitting in the dining room. While Stiles is on the couch untangling the hooks for their ornaments, his dad is scribbling out pre-written thank-yous to be sent out when people inevitably flood their mailbox with Christmas cards, often times a little late. He takes a few hooks out of his mouth that he was still humming around and sets them aside, continuing on as if he hadn’t stopped singing, “-never talk to you again, unless your dad’ll suck me –”

 

                “You know the rule,” his dad interrupts, neither of them looking up. Stiles does know the rule, but he’d been thinking of the presents he still needs to wrap up and the song had pretty much burned itself into his head. Everyone knows that only finishing a song will get it out, and it’s less than a minute long, but – he knows the rule. He’ll just have to listen to it later, in his room maybe.

 

                The rule is actually more or less a kind of joke that Stiles’ parents started some years back – he doesn’t know when, he thinks it’s always been a semi-unofficial thing. His mother loved Christmas music and would listen to it all year ‘round, even through his dad’s eyerolling and ever-present attempts to play anything else before she could get her hands on the radio. Eventually, he’d made the “rule” that if she were going to play those songs all year, then she should lay off on Christmas because they all had to hear it on the radios everywhere else anyway, and surprisingly, she went with it.

 

                So, now, even if she’s gone, it still applies. Anything even remotely having to do with Christmas is banned. _Or, at least around your father_ , mom would always say, before blasting _Wham!_ as they baked cookies, waiting for his dad to get home.

 

                It’s now the time of year where he can play anything he wants – and sing along – without getting chastised for it, as long as it isn’t Christmas-y. He’d pushed his dad’s limits over the years before, finding the worst songs he could, but he didn’t even take the bait. By now, Stiles just plays whatever he feels – or, whatever sounds good, because he can’t handle the silence. It’s wrong, abnormal, to be quiet surrounded by these decorations, this time of the month, of the year.

 

                Grabbing his phone from the cushion next to him, he waves his hand over his shoulder even if he knows his dad won’t even glance at it. “Yeah, yeah,” he acknowledges as he types out what he wants to listen to. He’s got a dumb, growing smirk on his face as he finds what he’s looking for – he may know that those limits aren’t that rigid, but that doesn’t mean he ever stopped poking at them.

 

                There’s a few seconds of silence before, “ _Fuckin’ and suckin’ and touchin’_ –”

 

                His dad doesn’t even sigh at him. What a shame.

 

                He lets it play on as he lifts himself up to go in search of the last of the ornaments. They’re glass, fragile but heavy, and always placed around the top of the tree because Stiles used to have (still kind of does) a problem with running into the tree, where the ornaments closest to the bottom would fall off and onto the floor. His mother always put the easily-broken ones on top, and not a single one of them has been chipped or shattered, so she clearly knew what she was doing.

 

                He passes his dad on the way to the stairs and presses a hand firmly into his shoulder, more than a clap, but not a touch he plans on lasting longer than a few seconds as he steps around him. He stops, however, when his dad reaches up to hold his hand there, warm skin against his, and the comfort of the touch, affection, forces him to press his lips together, lest his knees threaten to buckle.

 

                _It’s Mother’s Day…_ rings on in the back, and both of their hands clench a little, almost at the same time.

 

                “Love you, dad,” Stiles whispers, finally pulling back, needing his hand to rub at his eyes, even if they’re still dry now – if he doesn’t keep a lock on that, then they won’t be for long.

 

                His dad, while letting go of him easy, settles back onto the table much slower than Stiles’ own, hanging at his waist. “You too, son.”

 

                The music still playing changes in pace once again, and Stiles ducks his head as he takes the stairs two at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> happy holidays


End file.
